


dungeons & witches.

by delibell



Series: '17 Halloween prompt challenge [5]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King, Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Derry, Dungeons and Dragons, F/M, Fluff, Halloween, Middle School, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-10 20:26:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12307095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delibell/pseuds/delibell
Summary: (Name) is rumored to be a witch and Richie wants to find out the truth.





	1. the witch's home

**Author's Note:**

> this is written for @superwolfiestar ‘s “Beauty and the Beast Halloween prompt challenge”! this is day 8 and prompt witch. Also, I used @horrificmemes  
> 31 Horrific Days v2 [October Writing Challenge] ! same day, prompt basement. i just love the movie IT so much i can’t–

All of Derry middle school knew who (Name) (Lastname) is…Or, at the very least, the rumors about her. The said girl spent most of her time in solitude, hardly looking up from her books, but it was said that when she did decide to gaze at the general audience that always seemed to be surrounding her, her eyes would shine like small diamonds in a kaleidoscope of colors, and whose ever eyes she met would turn to stone. (Latsname) had a few friends that always tagged along, but they too bit into the rumors and avoided her gaze. There was even gossip, one time a year back, that she had charmed her friends and that’s why they never left her side. Even Greta did not dare to look at her directly. Carrying around old books in complex writings did not help to clear her name, either.  Everyone just assumed that they were filled with spells and curses, when in reality…It was only Estonian since you’re only partly American.

October is quick to approach, and so is the weeks’ worth of vacation kids have to celebrate Halloween and catch a break from studies. As you walk out the stuffy school corridors into the windy, bleak day, you hug your books closer to your body as if that would keep you warmer. You frown softly. Stacy and Gwenda, your two best pal’s, have been at it all morning about how should you all spend the first free day of Fall. Your plans were mostly to brush up on your studies, but you know that will be impossible to do – the girls are too persistent to leave you alone. Perhaps you really have charmed them, by accident, you’re not a witch and do not fully understand the concept of what a witch is supposed to be, but so many people have insisted on you being one that you stopped questioning it all together.

“Last one to Eds has to kiss him mom!” A familiar voice shouts, and soon you see the boy himself getting on his bike as the rest of his friends hurriedly follow. Eddie, you believe his name is, yells something back in return, something frustrated but you hardly hear it as Gwenda and Stacy continue to argue, one standing on either side of you. It happens in a split second: Richie, you know him since you sit in front of him in science class, glances your way and your eyes meet. Directly. You can obviously see the shock and fear morph his face, but all you do is smile sweetly at him. He looks away quick enough to give him whiplash and nearly tumbles from his bike.

“You okay, Richie?” Stan inquires. Another classmate. The rest of their conversation is lost as they ride away.

~*~

“You don’t believe me?” Richie complains once they finally reach Eddie’s house. The three boys share a look, putting their bikes away. Eddie fixes his gloves, then his scarf, and lastly he pulls on the flaps of his cap so it would hide his ears completely. Bill simply shrugs. Stan has the urge to roll his eyes and tell their glasses wearing friend to shut the hell up, but refrains. Richie frowns, “Some friends you are. _Wussies_. Beverly would believe me.”

“N-N-Not e-even Ben w-would believe you, R-Richie.” Bill stutters. Walking to the front door, Richie shakes his head.

“I’m telling you, guys! I’m fucking telling you! I looked directly into them…Directly into her _eyes_! And I’m fine!” He grins, wildly, “I must be immune or something…” He adds quieter with a note of awe in his voice.

“ _Richie_.” Stan starts, “ _Dude_ …You do realize (Lastname) _isn’t_ actually a witch, right? It’s just some stupid rumor Henry started.”

“Oh, yeah? Then how will you explain the books she carries around, hmmm? _Hmmm_? Or those two nutjobs that always follow her around?” Richie narrows his eyes, “I rest my case.”

Stan shrugs, “They hang around her because she’s a sweet girl. And—“

“ _Sweet girl_?!” Richie exclaims, “No…! Stan…Stanley, don’t tell me…She got you TOO?!”

“Oh fuck off, Richie.”

~*~

It’s late in the evening when your doorbell rings cheerily. Gwenda and Stacy had left barely twenty minutes ago; _did they forget somethin_ g?, you wonder as you move from the couch and turn off the TV. Your grandmother, from upstairs, yells instructions in Estonian and you vaguely register that she wants you to open the door.

“Oh, hello.” You greet, a note of uncertainty in your voice as you open the door wide and find the same boy you locked eyes with today nervously staring over your shoulder. It is a bit unusual to have a guest visit so late, much less a _boy_!, and you feel yourself grow uneasy. You flinch from the cold as it pools past your body and into your home. Richie fixes his glasses and clears his throat, but before he can speak you say, “Would you…like to come inside?”

“Oh, sure.”

You lock the door again, just like grandmother taught you, and curiously stare at the boy that takes his hat off to reveal curls of dark brown hair. The warmth of your house is pleasant to your exposed arms – you are wearing your PJ’s and only now do you find yourself mildly-embarrassed. Riche doesn’t care, perhaps he hadn’t realized yet, but you scurry and leave him alone for a moment to grab a blanket from the couch and wrap it around your shoulders, successfully hiding your body from prying eyes. “ _So_ …” You start, “What brings you here?”

“(Lastname), be honest with me.” Richie says, “Are you…” He glances away, checking out the interior of the house: old polished wood, a fire place, lots of dark green colors and carpets to match, pictures of a baby girl on the stairwell. “Are you really a witch?”

You blink. A wicked grin pinches your cheeks and with a sharp exhale you exclaim, “ _Alahazam_!”

Richie jerks, startled, “ _Hey_! Not fair, warn me next time!”

Again, an old though commanding voice from upstairs speaking a different native tongue calls for your attention and you direct it away from Richie; the boy himself shrinks in mild fear as he too looks up and into the darkness that pools from       upstairs. You reply something, something foreign that he cannot understand and he gulps. Perhaps you really are a witch and that _Alahazam_ bullshit really was some deadly spell you cast on him. And now he’s trapped. His vacation will go down the drain, naturally it already would’ve since he planned to spend it in the arcade, but now he will be stuck with you. Oh _God_ …What if he becomes the next Gwenda and Stacy? Did you also trap them so skillfully, as you trapped him?

You give Richie a curious look, “It’s Estonian.” You explain. Richie snaps to you.

“I totally knew that.” Now he feels a bit stupid, “But you still didn’t answer me!”

“Did you turn to stone?” You question.

“No.”

“Then I’m not.”

“B-But!” You walk past him. He has no choice but to follow, “What if I’m immune, or something!”

“Then why are you complaining?” You reply with a smile, entering the kitchen and quickly maneuvering it. You hook your fingers on the handle of the white door that stands next to the fridge, open it and flick the light switch; the basement floods with dim yellow light and you look back at him, “You can wait here, if you want. I’ll just be a sec.” Richie shakes his head – no way is he staying in this house alone. He still doesn’t fully trust you or that voice from the second floor, but he will take his chances with you.

Honestly, what is he even doing here? He isn’t quite sure himself.

 _“They hang around her because she’s a sweet girl”_ Stan’s voice rings in his ear as he watches you slowly retreat into the basement; your steps creek once you walk on a loose stair. Huh. Perhaps Stan’s love confession for you was not entirely unexplainable. Okay, now he is really being stupid and risking that thing from upstairs snatching him whilst he’s daydreaming alone, so he hurries after you.

The basement is surprisingly cozy, as cozy as a basement can possibly be, that is. It’s warm here, so warm that he unzips his jacket since it starts getting hot. Dust tickles his nose. A few lamps lay in various places. Shelves stand tall and filled with trinkets and old things. Your bike sits hidden behind the couch that has a few pillows and blankets on it. His eyes shoot to the middle of the room as you make your way to the washing machines. A small table with few chairs and a game on its top sends Richie into a frenzy and he breaks into a grin, sprinting down the stairs so fast that you worry he might break his neck.

“Holy shit!” Richie says, eyeing the set-up before he looks at you by the washing bin, “You play _Dungeons and Dragons_?!”

With a shy smile you nod, “With my grandparents…Stacy and Gwenda don’t really like this game.”

“Damn, (Lastname), and I thought that all you had was Quiqa boards and humans organs.”

“Don’t you mean ‘ _Quija’_ boards?” You correct him. He simply shrugs and examines the figures on the table. He frowns, softly. The campaign looks unfinished, like it was stopped in the middle of an intense battle. Dust had collected over spare days of not using it. Richie’s fingers pinch the small figure of a monster and he picks it up, inspects it in the light, “The—“

“- _Demogorgon_.” He finishes for you, sending a confused look your way, “Why didn’t you finish playing?”

“Oh.” The basket of clothes lays forgotten for a moment as you turn away from the washer, “Oh, _uhm_ , my…grandmother fell sick, _so_ …” You try to find the right words, “So we couldn’t finish it.” Richie gives you and unreadable look. He then puts the Demogorgon back.

“I’ll finish it with you.” Richie states and you blink. There is a sudden spur in your chest, one of happiness no doubt, but also of confusion and your brows twist; Richie knows you are about to question him, and he really does not want that because he isn’t sure himself. So he simply shrugs, “I’m pretty damn good at rolling dice _and_! And I have never lost a battle.”

“But…” You start, “It’s a bit late, so…wouldn’t your parents want you home?”

He shrugs again, completely dismissed and you realized you touched on a subject you shouldn’t have, “She won’t mind.” He says simply and sits down, “I’ll just tell her a witch put me under her spell and make a bunch of kissy faces.” He mimics a few ‘ _Muah muah’s_ and you giggle.

_“They hang around her because she’s a sweet girl.”_

Dear God, please _please_ tell him that this tightness in his chest is a heart attack from eating too much sugar at Edds and not caused by some other fairly obvious reason. Also, please tell him that he and good boy Stanley won’t have to be rivals in this… _Wait_. Rivals in what?!

“Hey, (Lastname)?” Richie suddenly calls you. You hum, “You know Stanley Unwin?”

The question catches you off guard, “Oh, uhm, well I only spoke with him a couple of times, so not really, no.”

He gives a stiff nod, “Don’t bother, then. He’s a total dick.”


	2. bewitched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: this is written for @superwolfiestar ‘s “Beauty and the Beast Halloween prompt challenge”! this is day 9 and prompt pile of leaves. Also, I used @horrificmemes   
> 31 Horrific Days v2 [October Writing Challenge] ! same day, prompt eyes. dis is cute read it plz

Richie Tozier stayed late for the D&D campaign. Your grandfather had joined the two of you by your request; he was the storyteller, whilst you and Richie had characters that moved across the board with different powers and striking names. Yours is a mage, which Richie was not surprised to hear _at all_ , whilst he took up your grandmother’s figure, a knight. Your grandfather’s accent was a bit difficult to understand, and once he found himself lost he simply glanced at you. Then you’d lean in and explain in clear hushed words what he was to do. True to his word, Richie had yet to roll a bad dice. But he could hardly focus. For some reason, you were just too distracting.

Your eyes shine with specs of real joy, perhaps not in a kaleidoscope of colors, but the simple (color) still looks enchanting in the warm lamp light of the basement. There’s something about your eyes that remind him of Fall: their alertness, like scattering leaves in the wind, or the warmth that glows from them, like hot chocolate. People like hot chocolate. It makes them feel nice, fuzzy in a way, comforted even. That’s how Richie felt each time he caught your wandering gaze: his chest would grow twice its size with an excited spur and confine his breathing, to the point where he’d have to quickly look away and not choke on his saliva. It was a complex emotion, one Richie didn’t understand, perhaps didn’t even want to. He tried to focus on the game, but one glance at you smiling at the miniature version of you would wipe all clever strategies saved in his mind.

A ray of cheers erupt from you as you jump up, clap your hands and with a brilliant grin shake Richie’s shoulder, “ _We did it_!” You say, your voice riddled with disbelieve, “We did it, Richie! We defeated the Demogorgon!” Your grandfather comments something in Estonian, sending a wary glance at the boy with glasses that gives you only a cocky smile in return.

“ _Geez_ , how did you survive this long without me?”

With a sharp inhale, a bit out of breath, you plop down onto your seat and look at your grandfather. Your smile dims just lightly, “It’s late now.” He says, turning to Richie, “Would you like me to drive you home, son?”

“ _What_?” Richie blinks, fixing his glasses, “ _Oh_ —Oh, no need, sir, I’ll just walk back.”

Your grandfather shakes his head, “I can’t just allow you to leave when it’s so dark. You know of the curfew, don’t you?”

“He could…” You interrupt, “He could stay here…For the night,” You glance at Richie, “if that’s alright with you, vanaisa.” There is a long pause. Richie wants to speak his mind – which is currently a jumbled mess of mostly screaming because he can’t believe what you just said. Your grandfather can’t believe it, either. Richie would be lying if staying at a witch’s home – he now is fully convinced that you had bewitched him somehow, there is no way in hell any of what he’s feeling is natural, - is exciting, and even a bit frightening. But you are hardly even friends, you had only properly met hours prior and even he knows when he has overstayed his welcome. But your voice is so soft, so soft it glides through the air like a pleading whisper, like a witch’s spell and your grandfather looks at you and Richie and then back at you in consideration. Your cheeks grow red; dust particles dance around your (color) hair and fall onto the board. Richie gulps. There is no way in hell your grandfather would allow a BOY to stay over—

“Well, alright.” He finally agrees and Richie nearly falls out his chair. You smile, “But are you sure that will be alright with your parents, Richard?”

“I-It’s Richie.” His face must be sweaty since his glasses keep sliding off his nose, “And yes, sir.”

There is another moment of silence. Your grandfather stands up and gives a knowing smile, wishes the two of you a goodnight and exits the basement is slow creaky steps. The dust continues to settle now that the two of you are alone. You stare at the place your grandfather’s back disappeared, and Richie stares at you, unsure of what else to do. He wasn’t lying when he said his mother won’t care, but it still is a bit odd that your grandfather agreed to let him stay. No wonder he’s European (Richie thinks Estonia is in Europe, he isn’t entirely sure though). He has heard rumors that people in Europe are more lenient.

“I’ll make you a bed.” You say standing up, “Just wait here!” And you run up the steps, yank the door open and he hears your footsteps echo from above. He sighs heavily. Now that you are away there is more room to breathe. He stands up and circles the basement, evaluating its interior as he waits for you to return: shelves stand packed with old knickknacks, books filled with rotten pages and spilled ink, a few cracked snow globes and canned food. The washing machine and washing bin stand neat – not a speck of dust touches the dull surface and once he approaches it a harsh smell of chemicals shoos him away. Lastly his eyes land on the sofa – the brown leather is cracked in places and worn off, but the pillows and blankets look almost brand new. A bright pink bike hides just next to it.

You come down a couple of minutes later with clean sheets up to your head, carefully standing on each wooden step afraid to fall. You don’t greet him, merely beeline for the sofa and dump it down, ”You’ll sleep here, if that’s alright.” You say, turning to him, “The upstairs couch is not nearly as comfortable as this one.” You explain with an apologetic smile. Suddenly you click your fingers, as if remembering something important, and rush to a nearby drawer. Richie sits down. You take out a walkie-talkie and hand it over to him. He raises a confused brow, “Here. Take it. Just ring me if you get scared.”

He gives you a sarcastic smile, “Do I look like Stacy or Gwenda to you?” But takes it anyway, and you giggle.

“You might turn into one at night.” You say cheekily, your obvious intent is to scare him and it works, you just don’t realize it, “Anyway, I have one too, so…If you can’t sleep or something, you know what to do. There’s ice cream in the fridge, and a bathroom below the stairs on the first floor…” You think of what else should you add before leaving, “ _Oh_! And breakfast is always at eight thirty, so if you feel like an early bird you can join.” He nods stiffly. You hook your hands behind your back and shyly look away, “Well, then…Goodnight, Richie.”

He gives you a small smile, “Goodnight, (Lastname).”

As you make your way up the stairs, and he tries to find a comfortable position on the sofa, you suddenly stop. “Richie?”

He perks up, “Yeah?”

“…Thanks.” The words slip past your lips before you can stop them and with a racing heart you run up the stairs, turn off the lights and shut the door.

The basement grows still; it’s so dark Richie can’t see his fingers. He’s unsure what time it is, but it’s probably about eleven pm. and he should probably go to sleep. He takes off his glasses and places them on the cold ground, tangles himself in the sheets and closes his eyes. Except he never goes to sleep so early and he is much too excited to even think of resting now, too. His eyes start to adjust, little by little he can make-out far away figures and shapes but they are too blurry for him to realize what they are. His mind whirls in almost a feverish way – this day has been one event after another, and he can barely keep up. If someone had told him that he would be staying over at the Derry Witch’s humble abode, he would’ve pointed a finger and laughed. Oh he would’ve laughed so hard he would probably have peed himself. (Name) (Lastname) was someone he couldn’t even imagine being friends with: first of all, she is a _girl_ , second of all, she’s not Beverly’s friend, and why would he be friends with a GIRL that has no relations with his only other GIRL friend?

But he had learned a lot about you today. He had learned that you use the same shampoo as Beverly when you leaned in to explain what your grandfather was saying. He had learned that you liked to read comic books. He had learned that your parents died when you were barely five.

That thought strikes him again, so crystal clear he can almost hear himself ask you the question “ _Does your dad play, too?”_ and see you shaking your head, curls of (color) hair bouncing around your face as in a quiet voice you reply, “ _I wouldn’t know. He’s dead._ ”. But that’s not what’s unusual. He can’t explain it, can’t put a finger on it. It’s like something is missing, in him, something he has forgotten, but something that most definitely happened. His left palm itches and he wipes it on the sheets. There, in your voice, he could hear a strange sound. What was it, what was it?... You had looked away from him then, staring straight into the row of cluttered shelves… He had passed them, did he not? Was it a book? No…A snow globe?...

A **clown**.

Fear strikes his chest and he inhales sharply, sitting up and grabbing around for his glasses. He clumsily puts them on, but the scenery doesn’t become any more or less clear. Now he remembers, on the top shelf there are two globes, one is with candy canes and Santa while the other is with sparkles and a dancing clown inside. You had stared directly into the latter as you said those words. But what brought out such a knee-jerk reaction? Yeah, clowns are creepy, but that’s about it…

With furrowed brows he tries to calm his heartbeat, catch his breath and with a heavy sigh he lays back down. The room spins a little. The only thing piercing the darkness is the bright red dot of the device he’s holding. Finding the correct button, he presses it down and a shrill echoes through the basement. Static. “You there?” He questions, “Over.” He adds quickly.

“ _I’m here, Richie_.” Comes your raspy voice from the other line. He instantly feels better, “ _You okay down there? Over_.”

“ _Pff_ -Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? Over.”

“ _I don’t know.... I don’t like open spaces. It’s a bit too creepy for me. Over.”_

“The basement gives you the heebie-jeebies?” Richie snorts, “You’re such a girl, (Lastname).”

“ _I am one, if you haven’t noticed_.” Oh, he _has_ , “ _But_ …” You trail off, and for a heart stopping moment he thinks the line went dead, “ _If you get too scared take the flashlight. Over_.”

“Aww, wyou wowwied awout mwe? Over.”

“ _N-No, I’m just trying to help. It’s in the drawer, by the bike. Over_.”

“How is a flashlight going to help me sleep? Over.”

“ _So you are scared!...Over_.”

“Nu-uh!...Over.”

“ _Ugh, fine, Sir-Swears-A-Lot is the bravest kid on the block. Happy? Over_.”

“That’s more like it.” Richie grins, “But hey, for real now. Are you really a witch? Over.”

“… _Do you want to know the truth? Over_.”

Richie gulps. He thinks hard. Does he want to know, truly? Or is this just whimsical curiosity? Perhaps staying oblivious would be best, but…”I’m sure. Over.”

“ _I’m not. Over_.”

He rolls his eyes, “Will take a lot more convincing than that. Over.”

“ _Then I can try again tomorrow.”_ He can practically hear you smile, “ _Sorry, I’m just a bit…Sleepy. Over_.”

“ _Oh_!” Richie blurs, a tad disappointed, “Sorry for keeping you awake…Over.”

“ _Its fine, I was going to ring you anyway. But I’ll see you in the morning, okay? Over_.”

“Wait! Over.”

“ _What? Over_.”

“Thanks…Over.”

“ _For what? Over._ ”

“I don’t know.” He grins, “I thought we were just randomly thanking each other. Over.”

 _“…Goodnight, Richie. Over and out_.”

~*~

The fear melts away with the colors of the morning. His sleep was good and he feels rested, still a bit dazed since this situation is so surreal, but happy all the same. He wonders that, instead of turning a corner and knocking on your door he would have gone to the arcade and spent half the night there, would he have ever met you? Perhaps a freak incident at school would’ve happened where you spilled your books all over the floor and for some reason he would’ve decided to help you? Would your eyes have met? Would you have smiled at him so tenderly? Would he feel the exact same thing he does now, the freeing sensation of love that is also terribly confining at the same time?

Richie knows you love to smile. He had realized so over the course of two days. With a rake that’s almost longer than your body you work leisurely on the lawn, pilling dark brown and red leaves into one spot. The spot grows rapidly in size as the two of you work together. Richie finally lets loose when your grandfather isn’t around to overhear him swearing. But still, even if you laugh at his jokes, he feels a bit strange to swear around you. He is Richie _Trashmouth_ Tozier and he doesn’t want to say ‘Fuck’ ‘Shit’ and ‘Pussy’ in front of you because a part of him believes you wouldn’t like that. Oh man, if only Eddie could see him now! He would be so proud! Richie Tozier helplessly crushing on a girl and helping her rake leaves, just so he could spend more time with her…Richie has reached a new low. If anyone found out, his reputation would be tarnished.

“(Lastname)?” He calls you and you hum. The harsh wind blows past you, curling the strands of your (colour) hair and pinching your cheeks red, “I know this…Is a bit…Well, _fuck_ , okay. Me and my friends go to the quarry often. I know it’s cold now, but when summer starts and— _you_ —if…we’re still friends, would you like to join, too?”

You look up from the ground only to see him staring somewhere above your head with a light rosy hue on his cheeks. You purse your lips trying to refrain from smiling, “Yeah, sure. That could be fun.”

“…Bitching.” He nods, abruptly going back to work.

Hours pass quickly. So quickly in fact, that the two of you begin looking for excuses of what to do: threw away rocks from the driveway, got wrapped up in a mystery of a missing tricycle wheel, and tracked down a cat into its hiding spot. Noon rolls around and you realize that there are no more mysteries to show, so you say your goodbyes, unsure of whether to hug or wave or do whatever, so the both of you nod awkwardly and part ways. Richie takes barely a couple of steps away from your home when you call after him.

The wind howls in your ears, light and uncoordinated jumps your heart makes go along with the steps you take to reach him. It takes all of your courage, or perhaps no courage at all – just instinct, - to lean forward and peck him on the cheek. Richie grows uncomfortably hot and still, his eyes go wide and he stares at you as if his fears are reincarnated into your being. You give a shy smile, “Thank you, Richie.”

“F-F-For what?” He stutters, blinking wildly. _Damn_ , now he sounds just like Bill.

You shrug, “I don’t know. I thought we were just randomly thanking each other.” You take an easy step back, “Catch you later!” And hurry inside.

It takes another minute or so for Richie to compose himself.

“ _Fucking Europeans I swear to fuck, what the fuck did she cast on me? Do I need to see a shaman? I need to see a shaman…”_ He utters under his breath, feeling a heart attack approaching.


End file.
